


The Brightest of Stars

by UrsaeMajoris



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Female Character of Color, Major Character Injury, Non-Canonical Violence, Not Canon Compliant, Politics, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Racism, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13162149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrsaeMajoris/pseuds/UrsaeMajoris
Summary: You hated him with all the mighty resolve that closed around your heart like a claw. He didn't compromise and you couldn't, you never would, forgive him for that. But how could you not care for him, him being your soulmate?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, James Buchannan Barnes, Bruce Banner, Loki and Thor are property of MARVEL and are used here as non-profitable entertainment. Any real politicians or personality used here are for discussion only and no offense is directed.
> 
>  
> 
> Hello again. First of all, I know a lot of you will hate me for this. And I'm fine with that. I feel that a 100% real fanfiction needs to be written about Steve and the times we are living.  
> Second, this work uses problems of communicating feelings and intentions as plot devices A LOT, so if this is not your kind of thing, just scroll by.
> 
>  
> 
> The inspiration came, mostly, by the day after the election of Trump. I think we all need to agree that Captain America is, in several degrees, the wet dream of most of white supremacists. Not Steve Rogers, the skinny kid from Brooklyn, mind that, but instead the public persona of white male power that Captain America based himself off in this few years (the whole thing of “Caps fight the red menace” adding to this speculation). So, I tried to imagined how Trump + Avengers post-Civil War would fit together and this is the end result. Adding original characters to major Avengers made it more believable in my humble opinion (and I swear to God Loki has a major part in this history). Infinity War will be add only in the last chapters, so this is mostly being based around Steve on the run post-Civil War.  
> So this is it. Hope you guys enjoy it. English is not my native language and this work has not been beta’d to sorry for any grammar mistakes.

            - And it was it! – Amada said, her cheeks flushed with delight – it was all it took for me to talk to him. And then, and then, and then… the rest is history, as they say. – she finished, her apple half eaten dangling from trembling fingers. It was as if she was feeling her name on Stark’s skin in that very moment. That history was already told at least a hundred and eleven times since the week past the last one, when the both of them actually met, but the blonde liked enough to repeat it in case anyone around forgot.

            You snickered, and so did Kate, rolling her eyes and pursuing her lips into a fine line.

            - Right. – You said, disbelief clear in your voice dripping with sarcasm. – And your Fairy Godmother then gave you a beautiful chariot made of pumpkins for the wedding with a matching dress and glass slippers. – you said, Kate laughing vigorously from Amanda’s other side. She just eyed you with indifference, resuming in eating her apple.

            – Continue with this attitude – Amanda said, full of purpose – and you will never get along with yours. – she finished, swallowing.

            “ _Please God be that the case_.” You thought, before letting the subject go. 

 

            At age 25 you were probably one of the few beings in the entire universe that weren’t exactly anxious to meet your soulmate. Your entire life made sure to make you hate him even before you two even met: for every letter of the cursive calligraphy splayed across your chest you had years and years of fear, of terror and absolute rage laid out in your path; it was in the doctors voices, full of pity and disbelief; it was in KKK’s chants still echoing through their sympathizers; it was in the shame of being discovered and called a fraud; it was through the government propaganda and in the merchandise that already passed generations in the market. But most of all, it was because of Smithsonian and the damned exposition they had – which you visited at the age of 9 and came back full of unresolved questions – and because of the parades, of the holidays, of fouth of july, of every little thing that made sure that the “American spirit” was never to be forgotten. You hated all of that – and so did your parents.

            You were born in the slums of Washington D.C, in a neighborhood so poor and so filthy it barely registered its existence in the minds of the city habitant’s; you were the only child much more out of necessity than desire and it weren’t few the times in your childhood where you didn’t have what to eat, what to drink or even what to wear. Peoples generosity run low these days and your parents always were too stubborn to accept pity. The American dream was long dead, and having 2 jobs weren’t enough anymore to provide for a family, but your dad would be damned if he ever would let his girls, his little omegas, live from other people scraps.

            Your mother was a different case entirely. She never had much, but the impending less to eat and to drink made her gain a trembling that never left entirely; a sadness that clouded her eyes and closed off her ears. She just vanished, year after year, each passing time more far away to you or your father to grasp; when she passed she was nothing but a shadow, barely remembered, barely a consciousness.

            Your father got the tumor when you were 16. He was well one day, and the other he wasn’t, and the kind of treatment the doctors said he needed were far beyond the meagre savings he had; neither of you ever had healthcare. He fought tooth and nail against it, and so did you, doing every single thing you could when out of school to get money for his meds. But it didn’t matter in the end, how strong he was or how determinant you could be because nothing can really change the way nature wants things to be; his funeral was beautiful in a sad sort of way and you stayed behind, looking down the hole where your father was laid to rest, and only being able to think how the casket was too small for such a large man. That couldn’t be right; he was never going to be comfortable in such a small, enclosed space.  

 

            Ever since the age of 9 the name you carried on your chest was of a living presence. You couldn’t forget it or ignore it even if you tried, and the burning sensation never truly left you – _it’s ghost pain of something that is not anymore_. _It’s like losing a limb; nothing to be done about it_ , they said, the few doctors your parents were able to afford back in the day – and in some days, truly lonely and sad days, when you realized you were all alone in a world that didn’t care about your existence in the slightest, the burning made you company; the dull ache lulled your senses to sleep, the pressure in your chest safe and familiar. When your father died – and therefore you were free from his attempts to shield you from a reality you already knew by heart - you found online forums and social groups around the city that got together every few days to discuss it, the pain and the dullness of having a dead soulmark, the barely whisp of a mark that could only feel the nothing. It was maddening for some people, especially for those who had proved how strong and will driven a soulmark could be, and between the high-pitched sobs of those who got left behind in death and the silent tears of those who never even got a chance to be, you sat still as a stone, silent in your own type of grief, listening and seeing to all, together with them and at the same time so, so apart.

            They said an alive mark would feel like a presence. As if were two in the same body: two thoughts, two feelings, two sensations. The second presence needed time to develop – time and intimacy, they would often teach in schools, for an audience of dreamy girls and malicious teenage boys – _but it would_ , given the proper attention, and it was the power of that presence that made soulmates so impossibly to ignore when found; _why relish with a small breeze when you can feel a tornado_ was often one of the analogies used to refer to soulmates and you always considered that sentence abhorrent in its own right. Tornados kill people, they destroy lives and you felt exactly like it, as if it couldn’t be truer to you, and the realness of it made you sick and pale with rage.

            The absence of your parents gave you the opportunity to pursue it with a morbid interest; you read about him, you asked elderlies what they remembered, you watched documentaries, and took classes, and went to the movies to see actors that looked nothing like him – too beautiful, too perfect tailored to be like him, a soldier bred for war – telling yourself that you were merely curious, that you only wished to know, when in truth, when no one else in the room could see you or look at you, you would sneak your hands under your shirt and trace the slabs of letters with trembling fingers, only to find the dull ache waiting for you, the ever lasting friend and companion.

            It wasn’t until college that you started to hate him and hate that small part of you that was his, too.

            You gave everything you had to be selected, and when the beautiful letter of an Ivy League college came for you in offset paper with quality ink, your aunt Margo cried with joy, fussing around you with a big smile and a high blush. Later, when you were already packing, too anxious to be still even though the semester were weeks always, she told you that she have felt so young again in that very moment; her little girl, all grown up and going to college. She drove you up in her old Toyota, so old it barely made out there, but it did nonetheless, and she hold you tight, tears in her eyes again, saying that your father would be so, so proud.

            He was found in the ice in your second semester.

            It was during a test. Mrs. Artwood appeared entertained enough with her book down the lecture hall, but you knew that the barely thought of cheating would make the old harpy go straight to the guilty one, satisfaction in her cold green eyes. You knew better; better to accept your failure with grace and dignity and then lose it all in begging for a chance than to risk a success you certainly wouldn’t have. Artwood was too smart to be fooled by grad students (they say that 2 divorces and a lost soulmate make that to a woman).

            But you never got a chance to beg anyway. It hit you like a truck in the middle of your chest, with such a force that it knocked out the air in your lungs, closed your windpipes and made you sag. You dropped, like a yellowing leaf, down the steps of the lecture hall, your nose bleeding and your entire body shacking so much your teeth clattered inside your mouth. But none of it matter because in your mind, the only thing you could sense was that you _were feeling_ , feeling for the first time that _there was someone there, on the other side, feeling you too_.

            The sweet relief made you gag and the happiness flooded your eyes with tears that couldn’t be restrained by your proud; you shouted and screamed and soiled yourself because you were finally _feeling_ , feeling the life that seemed to blossom around you like a miracle. It wasn’t death and destruction anymore; it was the adrenaline of flying high in the air, amidst the clouds and the sun, the power of having fates at your mercy and lives at your feet. It was the only thing worth feeling, the best sensation you could every experience, an occurrence so strong you could barely try to explain it.

            They called it a nerve attack, gave you some Xanax and sent you to your dorm.

            You were barely able to sleep that night or the following ones, so lost in the realness of the sensation that you had envisioned for so long. You traced your fingers, over and over and over the letters, delighted in noticing them more pronounced, more marked and even to you more _alive_. It was as if the mark was breathing with its namesake, alive again, flooding you with hormones like it was supposed to. The dull ache was gone, and the same went for the desperation, and the group sessions lost a participant because now you had a soulmate, you could feel it, deep down, as if this person’s feelings and thoughts could vibrate through your bones like the sweetest of melodies. You would sing to the harmonies the feelings of the one would pass to you, and dance to the words that appeared on your mind, swirling in your dorm, stuck in your own dream.

            But the reciprocation never came. The contact from the other side never appeared, not even once, and you tried to tell yourself that he was busy, that he was scared and sad and couldn’t be bothered; the helicarriers crashed down D. C, and you saw him fighting aliens and robots and even his friends but not even then, not even then you would feel anything.

            The joy soon turned to bitterness; your excuses no long believable even to your own ears. You didn’t know his reasons, and each passing day without a sign made you feel sour and sick. You couldn’t possibly try to reach him; he was a celebrity, a star and a hero, and the security around him was absurd considering the guy was, well, a hero himself. And so, you waited, to no avail, the almost love you felt turning into constricted longing.

            Donald Trump were elected a few months after he went missing, and then the longing turned into hate.

            The constant echo of racist slurs and malicious catcalls that always seemed to follow you through your life turned suddenly into a full blow landed in your cheek by the president of one of the male fraternities of the campus. _Negroes, give America back!_ Was what it was written in a banner they carried, and the aggressor apparently used you as an example to others during the beginning of your senior year. You were just passing by, too focused in your own papers to be bothered, but that didn’t sway the aggressor nor its friends and companions. Other students were hit that afternoon, but it was a _white college in a white society_ and the case suddenly turned into a simple fight, easily brushed off and ignored by the dean and the administration.

            And you saw the violence rise; one day someone got Aunt Margo straight out of Walgreens, and the fact that she was an elderly woman carrying shopping bags didn’t matter to the person that gave her a black eye and a broken tooth. Suddenly, it wasn’t safe anymore to walk even during daytime in some parts of the city, where houses would hang, proud and unafraid, flags with the iron cross on it. Amanda, who you met the year before, started going out with you; _just to be safe, to be a company_ , she would say, but she too got scared by the increasing number of those who didn’t care to hide their prejudices anymore – _An american-blond omega with a negro friend? Absurd! Abhorrent!_

            And you hated him. You hated the fact that they used his name and his picture, the war posters he posed for back in the 40’s, his sentences and the person he was to their own interests and you hated even more the fact that he seemed unfazed by it all. That he didn’t even care to send a note to a newspaper or something – anything – to tell these people they were wrong, that he would never, ever, be complaint to their interests.

            He didn’t appear at all. And the shock to see that he didn’t care in the slightest was only dulled by the necessity to finish off your education. You cultivated the longing and turned it to hate with a care and an obsession that only those deeply offended could, and you got your degree wanting nothing more than to find him and stick it up in his ass. _I got it despite of you_ , was in the tip of your tongue, ready to dart when the opportunity appeared.

            By the time you got your first job at Xavier School for gifted Youngsters, Trump was already threatening net neutrality and finishing off a big chunky of his wall in Mexico. You couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you were picked by your color instead of your capacities, but you tried to ignore it as best as you could; the bills weren’t paying themselves theses days, after all, and you soon discovered that as far as superhuman goes, the so-called X-Men where civil enough.

            By the time Amanda got to Stark, you had fallen into an easy routine of perpetually ignoring all the news you could about your country situation – you couldn’t face it, not really, not after the blow and the calls and the iron-cross flags billowing in the breeze – going through Xavier ridicule massive amount of art pieces and documents scattered around the mansion and going back to your shoe-box apartment to eat leftover pasta and sleep. It was comfortable and nice and most importantly, it set you at ease in those days.

            Till Amanda and Stark. And then everything went to hell.

            - There’s something coming up. – she said, out of the blue, or perhaps you were too lost in your own head to hear the string of subjects.

            - Hmm? – you answered, looking down the street. It was getting late; you should go back to the mansion. They could be nice there but they were still your bosses, anyway.

            - A position in the research department. – she said, her eyes full of mischief. – And Tony asked if I knew about anyone… - she trailed of, eyeing you with blue orbs full of malice.

            The preposition sunk in like an uncomfortable weight, and you shifted in your seat, trying to brush off the uneasiness that set in your bones.

            - You two are sure as hell trying to compensate for the lost time. – you said, but there were already two pair of eyes looking straight through you.

            - And I talked about you. The interview in next Tuesday, at 2. I’m sure the Professor can afford to lose you for a few yours in the afternoon. – Amanda said, and Kate winked to you above the blonde’s shoulder, smiling ear to ear. The two vixens talked about it then.

            - You are out of your mind. – you spat, rising quickly and shoving your things in your bag with a ferocity knew to few. – You must be out of your fucking mind. – you mumbled still, hands trembling.

            - Don’t be so dramatic. – Amanda said, clicking her tongue in disapproval. – It’s a hell of a good job. And besides, you are well qualified for it. 25 and in masters already?! Goddam girl! – she said, trying to brighten up the mood a little, but the damaged was already made and there was no way in hell and heaven that you were try a job at fucking _Avengers Facility_. No way. No fucking way. The possibility of finding him there – even thought he was missing and _couldn’t possibly be there_ – was too real to ignore. – And besides. – she continued, rising too, her curls bouncing and cheeks flushed with indignation – you need the payment. You sure as hell need it. And I swear to god I will kill you if you don’t show up. – she finished up, only because a high-pitched horn interrupted her train of thoughts. You used the opportunity to bounce away, as fast as you could, away from your friends and the desperation that seemed to rise to your lips and close your throat.

            They didn’t know. You never had the heart to tell. And the eagerness that possessed you to get as far away as possible from them in that afternoon had more to do with the indignation and the hate that you felt to the mark in your chest than anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there a new job for reader at the Avengers Initiative?

            Against all odds and your better judgment, at 1:45 p.m of Tuesday you were already sited on an uncomfortable chair, waiting. The goodwill suit you chose to wear that day felt terribly constricting, as if the cloth pieces were highlighting all of your inadequacy; you just wished to run, to hide and never to be seen again, to bolt away from those harsh, fluorescent lights that made the uneven stitch and used pattern of your pants even more pronounced.

            This was a terrible idea. You should have never trusted Amanda with these sort of things; she was too optimistic, too naive, and the sudden pressure in your chest, the sudden shame almost made you gag; the others were so bright in their good quality clothes and shinning smiles. How could you even attempt to compete with them?

            Your name ringing through the room broke you abruptly from your thoughts, and you came back to reality with Macy, the woman doing the interviews, calling you in. The Human Resources portion of the Avengers (organization? team? You could never guess after the so called Civil War) was separate from the major compound, made mostly by pastel green walls and bad furniture. The absolutely pitiable surroundings kept you from an impending anxiety crisis, and you clang to that ordinariness as if your very life depended upon the poor taste lounge chairs.

            You entered the adjoining room. Macy was all cold smiles and calculated eyes. She showed you the chair and sited in front of you, a timba table dividing you both. Her questions were as ordinary as the room surrounding you, and when the clock hit the 30-minute mark you felt as if it were all a bad joke. No way that a job for the fucking Avengers would be that simple; the situation was so surreal that your mind, in its panic induced high, decided that it all were nothing but a dream. A weird and awkward dream, but nothing besides that. You answered your questions with a pleasant smile and words that were meant for that type of situation, and when Macy waved you out and informed you of the next phase, you dismissed it entirely as a mere afterthought. There was no fucking way that that was it and you were absolutely happy to go back to your well stabilized routine.

            Macy called the next day informing you of the next interview; and her voice sounded harsh and unforgiving in the first hours of mid-afternoon when your cellphone rang. Somehow, the bright sunlight that came through Xavier's big windows made it all real, and you thanked her for the chance while the possibility slowly sunked in; despite a tiny little part of your brain that insisted that it was all a joke, a terribly and poor joke, that there was no way in hell that you were chosen over some McSomething of nice clothes and influent family. You hung up the call, high on hope and disbelief, and went to the first cheap store you could find to buy a new suit; it was almost as if the job was now a possibility, and beside the fact that you lived your entire life relying sorely on pessimistic feelings and disbelief over the simplest of things, that- that could be real. That job; you could get it, if you really wanted it.

            The next day you were there again, 15 minutes before the appointed time and with the same nervousness as before. Suddenly, everything just seemed like a terrible and cruel déjà vu, and you forced the thoughts out of you just in time; Macy called you in again. There was no use in having a panic attack now; against all odds you already had reached even further than you firstly estimated. This time, there were more people with her in the room. Judging by the wrinkled shirts, tweed jackets and thick glass frames, you could only guess they were your new wanna-be-bosses; full of poise and fake suave aura, the type of dissimulation academics and researches learned well enough to fake when presenting a lecture. The questions were more or less the same as before, but paradoxally, they were more focused in extracting what you knew about the subjects pertaining the work than simple coaxing out of you those vague, pleasant and completely fake answers about how much you wanted the job. You answered them readily enough, losing yourself one or twice in your argumentation due to the contents of the question; there was a damn god reason why you chose iconography and iconology as your field of work, and if the interviewers were indulging you in asking the type of thing you loved to explain, that was their fault, and not yours.

            This time thought, when you were released from the room with the same cold and detached smile Macy gave everyone else, she asked you to wait. And behind closed doors, one by one, she and the others called the attendees who soon left with down faces and cast eyes; then only you and other remained. The same academic types as before were long gone; and before you could spare them a second thought, Macy started again, shuffling papers on top of the timba desk.

            - You were both the best candidates. – she started, sounding as cold and detached as only someone from human resources can. So now we are entering the last step of this process. Please, hand over your ID cards or any other documents you have and wait by the lobby. I will be there shortly. “ _Of cours_ e,” you thought to yourself as the surprise by Macy's forwardness was slowly sinking in “ _they will run a background even in my facebook if they can spare the bother. There's no way they would let anyone with a record in_.” Handling her your driver’s license, you retreated to the same cold, empty and poor decorated room that housed your anxiety for the past 2 days and waited. And waited, and waited some more, and the ticking in the clock on the wall never stopped. Minutes turned into hours, and the sun slowly and steady made its way across the sky. Closely to 5:40 pm, Macy headed out again, handling over the ID’s you and the other candidate gave over to her several hours before.

            The silence was as deafening as an explosion, and Macy turned to you both saying:

            - Thank you so much for waiting. I will call each individually now to disclose the results. It was a really hard decision since you both are perfectly qualified, but it had to be made nonetheless. – nothing in Macy’s aspect indicated that she truly considered the decision hard at all; if nothing else, Macy’s monologue indicated more that she was profoundly bored for being forced, yet again, to recite those positivistic self-improvement words to rejected candidates. With a cold smile and unforgiving eyes, she continued. - Remember though, that not being picked by the Avengers Initiative is not a sign of failure nor weakness. It just wasn’t the right time. Shall we begin?

            And without waiting for a reply, Macy returned, yet again, to the next room, calling your name. You and the other candidate eyed each other suspiciously, and in those few seconds it took for you to respond to her call, you imagined if her boredom and coldness didn’t come for the fact that she probably was set to work, everyday, walking in and out of rooms.

            - Congratulations. – she said as soon as you closed the door behind. – Welcome to the research team of the Avengers Initiative. You were chosen to occupy the position of research assistant. Here in this folder you will find your new employee id and all the information about entering and leaving the compound, security measures, and other related subjects. You start at tomorrow at 8 since we will need to train you for evacuation and danger response before you can start within the research team. Welcome and we see each other again, at 8, here at human resources. – she finished, with the same flat monologue, handling over to you the brochure and shushing you out by another door, on the side of the timba table, that let you directly out of view of the other candidate.

            You let yourself be handled by Macy, and only when the cold air of upstate New York in August hit your face, your hand heavy with the brochure given to you by Macy, that her words truly sunken in, and you breathed in and out, in and out, your eyes flooded with tears. You made it. You, and no one else, and now you were safe; you got a nice job, could even find a better place to live or buy better clothes. The payment sure would grant you that. And even if that tiny little voice inside of you still dreaded the encounter and all the pain that it would ensure, another one, larger and louder, was infinitely happy and content because now you could finally start living instead of simply surviving. You could go to doctors, you could eat well, live well and be well. And everything would be fine.

 

 

            The next day found you in a mood so bright that you barely remembered the last time you felt that way; the sun shining through the big, open windows of the Avengers Compound made your mood feel even higher. The whole danger response training was nothing but a blur in your high spirits, and by lunch time you were already headed to the research section, eager to meet you new desk and the pretentious types that interviewed you earlier that week.

            - Well, hello there. – a woman called you, her big, black eyes staring at you intently through thick glass lenses. – I hear you’re the new assistant? – she asked, curious. Nothing indicated malice in her voice, however she had a pose of cold calculation and hot machinations that made you feel slightly guarded.

            - Yes, I am. – You said, extending your hand for her to shake it. Both of you had skins as dark as everyone else’s were light, but the stranger was at least a foot taller than you. – My name is Y/F/N. I’m pleased to make your acquittance. – You said, shaking the long, slender fingers she offered. She seemed to take you in, a discreet light shining in her eyes.

            - Why, so polite. Got chased by many police cars before you acquired your manners? – she asked, serious, and the call back made you flabbergasted. You had no idea what she meant, and the bright mood you were supporting earlier withered and died, like flowers on winter.

            - Oh, Alicia! Leave the new girl alone. – You heard someone say, and both of you turned fast, looking for the voice, the pitiable hand shake long forgotten. A man was coming. Old, apparently fifity or more years old, with a distinctive nose that assert the men’s hereditariness as being nothing short of European. His clothes were hideous, and there were at least 5 thick rolls of what seemed like papyrus in his arms. - Hello. I’m Selvig. You may call me Erik. – he said, barely batting an eye to you. He never stopped and you followed. What else were you supposed to do?

            – I’m the head of the research department of the Avengers Initiative. As you may have noted, we need other types of research beyond weaponry and such. There’s more to the world than violence! – he said, in a monologue that started bored and ended in a moralizing grandeur. If he was upset about something in the work structure of the Initiative, he gave nothing away and you didn’t ask. - That’s your desk. John will start showing you our decrypted Asgardian imagery index. You can start by reviewing those folios on drawer A of the cabinet by your right. Any doubts you speak with Marila. – he finished, and before you could continue following him, Selvig abruptly stopped, eyeing you suspiciously. – That’s all. You may go. – he said, his brows furrowed, and you obliged.

            As long as weird mornings go, you were fine. Stranger receptions were made at Xavier’s, and the day you arrived to find Logan bleeding naked atop a million-dollar painting was probably the worst you have ever had. Selvig’s blunt introduction was nothing compared to that.

            - Hey. HEY. Over here! – Someone called you, waving hands and signalizing a spacious desk by a bay window. The woman tipping you was short, with a blond hair so curly it almost looked like cotton candy atop her head. – I’m Marila. Joh’s not available and Selvig forgot about that, again! – she said, grinning at you. – That’s just Selvig being Selvig. Don’t mind him, they say something went wrong with his head after the whole Loki thing. And that’s Alicia, she’s trying really hard to push for a Head promotion but she does that by intimidating and NOT working, as you may have noticed. This is your desk, it’s an assistance desk, but if you work hard, I can guarantee a promotion in six months. It happened with all of us. – she continued, in one single breath, while you rested your purse by the feet of your new table. Loki’s thing? Promotion in six months? You had no idea what she was talking about, but nonetheless you kept quiet, just listening.

            Marila seemed the kind of person that gets talkative by meeting strangers and you didn’t try to cut her in whatever anxious fit she was experiencing. Soon enough it stopped, and she took a deep breath and showed you the index and then the folios Selvig wanted a review from.

            - You know. – she said, watching you start with your work. Her eyes were far away, and you had the impression she was talking to herself, rather than to you. – working here will be great, but will also give you some major problems. Anxiety, personality disorder, obsessive compulsive behaviors. Choose yours quickly before the right to choose be taken away from you. – she finished, and with an awkward smile, resumed her own work.

            And by the gods, you should have listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a FYI: This workspace was based off Avengers Age of Ultron were we see Selvig and a research team working on some asgardian manuscripts. We never get to know what happened to them by the end of Civil War (where the compound is mostly empty) so in this universe the Initiative just continues working as normal even after the so called Civil War. Next some shall come in a couple of days. Enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda and Tony work out some issues. The girls pressure reader into moving to Upstate New York.

            - I told you to go! I told you! – Amanda shrieked excitedly, her cheeks flushed and skin sweaty. She was barely holding onto the jogging you and Katie had established, but she sure as hell wasn’t done trying. – I told you to go, I’m so happy! – she said, her blue eyes already moist with tears.

            - Oh my god you’re such a basic cry-baby bitch, Amanda. – Katie said, her usual snarky full of fondness. – its just a job, its not like she found her soulmate! – Kate continued, but nevertheless squeezed the blonde’s arm in an affectioned manner.

            A shiver ran down your spine after Katie’s proclamation and you ignored as best as you could. It was no use spending energy with that now. Steve were far away, and if your hopes were listened to, things would continue to be that way; they would be for a very long time. Besides, the Avengers job was supposed to open to you better doors, professor-position-in-Ivy-League doors. You weren’t going to be there forever.

            - Now, you only need a better wardrobe and that’s it! Welcome to middle class, baby! – Amanda continued, and there wasn’t any malice in her voice so you let it slide. – Have you found a place to live yet? Upstate New York can be a pain. – she continued, genuinely concerned. You stopped the jogging, the pity for her breathless state taking the best of you.

            - Manda, it’s been only a week. – you said, trying to fight the grin tugging your own lips. Her happiness was contagious. – I didn’t even have the time to look yet. – you finished, which in itself wasn’t a lie. You haven’t look mostly because you wanted to stay far away from the places Steve could come to go into once he got back. Upstate New York, so close to the Avengers Compound? No way.

            - Y/Nickname, you can’t go from Hunts Point to Upstate New York every day. We can see how tired you are. – Katie said, her soft voice masking disapproval.

            They were right, of course. The Xavier mansion was definitely closest to Hunts Point than Upstate New York, and the hours long distance of traffic were taking their toll on you. Its been days since you had a proper night of sleep, and your mood had decreased greatly by your lack of rest. Still, in your resented mind, it was better to suffer from exhaustion than to risk finding Steve Rogers grocery shopping because you were both living in the same neighborhood.

            - We can help you with a down payment for the rent. – Katie started again, all snarky comments and sarcastic eyebrow movements long forgotten. – Just say the word. You can pay us later, or better yet, don’t pay anything at all! – she finished, looking at you with eyes that refused to be dismissed.

            - We can even go look for you. – Amanda continued, her flushed cheeks fighting the ferocity in her voice. – We know what you look for in an apartment. We know what you like. We know what you can afford. We can go hunt for you, send you pictures and then the only thing you will need to do will be paying and moving in. – she finished, looking at you expectantly.

 _Oh crap. They are at me_. You thought, frantic to yourself, while trying find topics to switch the subject without anyone noticing. The mark in your chest was a heavy load to carry, and the guilt that was the chain to the letters of Steve’s name only made it worse. You lived in fear of anyone noticing, and fear is as irrational as it is hungry: it devours and destroys, leaving you breathless and paralyzed.

            - Come on! It’s not a big deal. – Katie continued, her eagerness getting the best of her. – We are your friends. What friends are for if not for those things? – she said, her brows furrowed, her lips into a thin line. Amanda, by her side, seemed oblivious to the brunette’s annoyance.

            Katie and Amanda were as far away from each other as the sun and the moon. While both of them shared the same middle-class parents and childhood, Amanda was soft spoken and empathetic while Katie was direct and sarcastic. Amanda was soft, plump and smooth whereas Katie was tall, sharp and marred by years of being a soft ball player. Amanda saw always the best in people and Katie refused to see anything at all; Amanda was blond with deep blue eyes, small teeth that gleamed with laughter and high cheekbones that always light up in arrogance; Katie was a brunette, with watery hazel eyes, thick lips that were eager to quip and heavy brows that always seemed to mirror the best in people.

            To them, you were the night sky, indifferent and unassuming, where they could transit without fear of being eclipsed by one another.

            - Isn’t that Stark? – you asked out of genuine curiosity, because while Katie feigned offense and Amanda was soon to follow, the billionaire just entered Central Park, strolling resolutely in a pair of expensive gym sweats. He seemed focused, as if the mere existence of the park itself and its inhabitants were nothing but a distraction in his mind’s eye.

            - OH SHIT! – Amanda hissed and grabbed both you and Katie, her thick, acrylic nails marking half crescent moons in both of your arms. The blond dragged both of you to a nearby bench, guarded by a thick bush just outside the main path.

            To onlookers, only your voices could be heard, least they leave the trail and wandered off into the untamed areas of the park. Your surprise didn’t last long, because as Amanda released both you and Katie from her vice-like grip, the brunette was already turning to the blond, fury in her eyes.

            - WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR? – She asked, indignation dripping from her features. You just stayed silent, observing, because as much as you wanted to interject as boldly as the brunette, you were well taught by experience to never intrude into their fights.

            - Don’t yell! – Amanda hissed again, and for your complete bewilderment, she crouched just beside the bench, aiming for it to hide her thick body from view.

            - What the actual fuck is going on Amanda? – You said, your own confusion getting the best of your college-long tradition of never getting between those two when fighting. Katie realized the gravity of the situation by your own interjection.

            - Tony and I fought yesterday. – she said, her sunny and snobbish voice almost a whisper. – We argued hard and I left him standing there, alone. I just gave him my back. I shouldn’t have done that, but I did, and now he’s pissed and trying to contact me and I’ve been avoiding him since yesterday. – she finished. Her voice, always so arrogant, somewhat lost its ceremony by its owner predicament: crouched there, beside a bench at Central Park, Amanda seemed almost pathetic. And whatever it was the reason for the fight, you realized you hated Stark just for making that to your dearest friend.

            - What was the fight about? – Katie asked, fury long forgotten, sitting on the bench. Amanda just signed, her blue eyes scanning the bush every so often.

            – It’s private. It’s about him. Would I make it worst to tell you guys about it? – she asked, her voice small and uncertain.

            A man, on the other side of the bush, answered.

            - Yes, it would. – the voice said, and it continued. – Will you leave on your own accord or must I defile your dignity by dragging your out of this bush? – it concluded.

             The flush in Amanda’s cheeks vanished as her complexion, usually pink and lively, turned sallow and pale as a corpse. Her blue eyes scanned both you and Katie, looking for support, and she rose to her feet, brushing away imaginary leaves, just to             gain some time. You went to her; the fight of moments ago silly and unimportant. And even thought you squeezed her fingers in a reassuring manner, your eyes must have betrayed your doubts because Amanda’s ones faced you with resentment and pain.

            The three of you steeped out of the bush, in a rather sad and mediocre manner. On the trail, looking very annoyed, was Tony Stark, arms crossed, sunglasses perched atop his straight nose.

            - How the fuck did you find me here? – Amanda asked, in a defensive mood that was impossible to ignore.

            - CCTV cameras. – He said, matter of fact. He himself seemed to be guarded by something.

            - What the fuck Tony, that’s so creepy! – Amanda said, putting between herself and the man a good distance.

            - Well, this is what I need to do when my own soulmate – _my own omega_ – is avoiding me! – he said, exasperated, his hands flying wildly in the air.

            You and Katie stayed silent, and while the brunette was sensitive enough to diverge her eyes from the couple, you couldn’t. Tony Stark being there, standing in front of you and having an ordinary couple fight in the middle of the Central Park hit you like a ton of rocks; this was real, he was real, and if Iron Man was real, so was Captain America.

            The same hilarity only possible through disbelief hit you again, just like it did so many years before that, when Steve gave his first breath after being frozen and considered dead for 70 years. The materiality of it, _the realness of it_ , made you sick, and the letters on your chest churned painfully, as if trying to break free from you, or you from it.

            Tony was such a force to behold that when he stopped talking, so did your train of thoughts, and even Katie forced her eyes to face the man. And once you saw him, you realized the toll the fight had taken on him too; the makeup he was wearing couldn’t hide the profound marks on his face of a night of restlessness; the downturn of his lip was barely concealed by the iconic goatee. His scent was all around the four of you, strong, demanding. You had the slight impression that if you could see his eyes, they would shine with hurt.

            - I believe we haven’t been introduced. – He said, all polite fakeness. It was rather pathetic, really, to see both of them looking so forlorn with guilt. Everything about him seemed off, somehow, and you then realized that was probably the reason that everything about Amanda was off too since last night.

            You decided to spare both of them the further embarrassment.

            - We were already leaving. - You said, matter of fact, while squeezing Katie’s arm so she could follow your leave. – Nice to meet you mister Stark. Bye! – You said, trying not to sound too rushed and failing miserably, dragging Katie with you. This time, the brunette didn’t complain.

            When you were both far away from the park and the swarm of questions had cleared from both your minds, Katie turned to you, all hard resolution.

            - I will go apartment hunting for you on Monday. – she said, with an inflexion of whom didn’t want to be objected. You obliged, unwillingly.

 

            - Can you explain to me what the hell was that yesterday? – Tony said, and the coldness in his voice was poorly hiding the desperation.

            Amanda and Tony already had intimacy, even if had barely started. They knew one another, their marks have been touched, their scent have been felt, and that was the reason she could feel much more than see the nagging on the edges of his chest, as if his reproach was caving himself in. Her sudden outburst seemed naïve and mean compared to what she could feel from him, and her eyes filled with two days’ worth of unshed tears.

            - You don’t open up with me. – She said, fat, salty, tears rolling down her cheeks. – Most of the time I’m only there physically and I can’t even be a decoration because- she stopped herself, her arms gesturing wildly around her body.

            - No, Amanda. – Tony said, harshness badly poised in his voice, and when her tears refused to stopped, Tony insisted. – Amanda, NO. – He said, gravely this time, and the imposition of his alpha status through his words was enough to make her swallow the tears that were still to fall. – Don’t go there. – He warned, and even if it was clear that he wished to break the distance between both of them, something held him back. – You know that’s not an issue with me. – He continued, but the omega barely heard him before her trembling lips started again.

            - But you don’t talk to me. Its just pretty dresses and expensive dinners, I’m not a part of your life, I’m just your sugar baby! – she accused, the tears resuming their path. Amanda was nothing if not a stubborn omega. – And Rogers? I didn’t even know you were fighting to get him to come back. I didn’t even know there was something wrong before I intruded you and Friday talking in private! – She continued, and the pain in Tony’s eyes, in Tony’s feelings, in his name marking her collar bone didn’t seem enough to make her stop. – This is the type of relationship you want? Because I can’t Tony, I can’t!

            - I’m a hot, pipping mess! – He said, defeated, taking the sunglasses off. His gestures seemed tired, manifesting an advanced age he didn’t have yet. – I don’t want to drag you to it. – He said, and there was an honesty in his brown eyes that begged for forgiveness.

            - You will not drag me to it, Tony. I want to be a part of it, I want to help you through it. – She said, her tears deflating a little. Amanda could be a stubborn omega but she was also fiercely caring of those she loved. The pain she felt through Tony was suddenly impossible to ignore. – Were supposed to be a team and not an assortment of two people. – she said.

            Amanda was the one to break the spell separating them, and the light shone in Tony’s eyes when she reached for him, invading his personal space. Her chubby hands caressed his ears, and then his neck, and he released a breath he didn’t realized he was holding.

            - Baby, – she said, voice sunny and kind as ever. – What happened in Siberia?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates so you guys can forgive my year-long absence. The next chapter is gonna be sorely about Steve's mark, and his not so celebrated return to the US. Stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Cap comes back to the US. Problems with Stark ensue.

            Bucky was at it again.

            There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in Steve’s mind that Buck had no idea what his hands did once he started diverting. They would go to his armored shoulder, tracing lines invisible through thread; the tick was an old one, one that always signaled that Buck’s mind was nowhere to be found. Sometimes he would just stay still, his mind far away from any coherent thought, thinking about god knew what. To Sam, who noted it first, it simply seemed like Bucky was daydreaming; but Steve knew his friend, and the unfocused eyes were nothing short of Jame’s own way of being simply away. Of putting his mind to rest, of unfocusing on the world outside to focus on whatever was happening on the inside.

            In 1942, it was the mark. And Steve had a nagging sensation that the mark was the responsible for the modern reason of Bucky’s digression, too.

            As far as Steve could remember, being markless was the sole characteristic that bought both of them together. In a world with few resources and even fewer people; with the threat hanging upon their heads that there wouldn’t be a modern, western world to call home, the phantom pain that both of them experienced since a young age was the strongest reason for union. Everyone was suffering, and pain was not reserved for the old or wicked nor the advantage of happiness saved for the good or brave; their pain was of a different kind, and in a certain insane, masochistic way, they embraced it together, because it meant that they were also, different.

            - Bucky. BUCKY. – Sam called. He seemed concerned, somehow. But in those days, he was always concerned that the Winter Soldier would be back, and Steve couldn’t really blame him for it. He was concerned, too. – We are almost there. – he said, the improvisation clear for the others but not really for the focus of the hero's attention. James just shrugged, nonchalant.

            The hand stopped. Sam and Steve noticed it too, but only the blonde had an idea, even a vague one, of what the compulsive movement meant.

            They never really discovered what it was: was the soulmate never born or already dead? In those days, with seemingly innocent hospitals that spread across the continents like wildfire, where families would put slightly different omegas to suffer and disappear, in a world were desperation was ruling Europe and more than a million people had already died in Germany, they couldn’t really know. They could have been French, and perished during the German invasion. They could have been Russian and died in Holodomor. They could have been native American and died in one of those seemingly innocent institutions for the socialization of Indians. They could have been black and killed in a spree of white righteousness, or maybe Japanese and be stuck in one of the camps in the Midwest. The possibilities were endless and also was the pain. The pain of not knowing, of not being able to know.

            Bucky had tried to camouflage it with dates. Beautiful and empty girls, full of poise and red lips who would sweep across Jame’s life as nothing but a blur; several girls, dozens of girls, long skirts and fluffy hairs, rich and poor, black and white, to the point where Steve actually stopped counting. Buck would use them as corks, to fill in a hole even himself didn’t know how to deal with. But something never changed: the hand movement never stopped. And when the parade of girls ended in a boom and twinkling lights every day at dawn, Bucky’s hand would start to trace it again, the letters that, splayed across his shoulder, burned of abandonment. His feelings would also be left hanging, emptied. And then, everything would start again, at the next day, by morning.

            Steve was of a different stock. Steve would sit by the windowsill of his old apartment, where he once saw his mother and father, both bought together by their marks, sit in each other’s lap when they thought little Stevie wasn’t looking. Steve himself, several years later, would remember it and look out in the city, wondering when his own time would come. Steve would drink his coffee alone, in the morning, thinking when would he ever get the chance to be hugged from behind, to feel moist lips full of want against his own, to see eyes shine just for him.

            But the years passed, his conditions pilled up, and by the time the war reached its peak, he was sure his time would never come. He was born in July, the dampness and bleakness of summer seemed almost like his brothers and sisters, and when the 4th of July of 1940 reached him, Steve coughed up, not expecting nothing to come up with it this time.

_(Little Stevie, always so bleak and melancholic, had this preposterous fantasy that his soulmate would find him by his intense coughing in July. The mark would hurt twice more because of the dampness, and his narrow chest could barely hold it together. In his fantasy, a beautiful woman with smooth skin and bright eyes would offer him her handkerchief; he then would take notice of the monogram on one of the corners, would ask her name, and things would go from there. In his fantasy, his biggest disadvantage would be the sole responsible for his happiness and all would end well. But reality, you see, rarely is like fantasy)._

      And then he went to war. Peggy Carter was everything he didn’t even know he wanted in a soulmate: perfect red lips, attitude and a right hook mean enough to break a man’s nose. Steve fell for her, and, how couldn’t he? He was all alone; the mark seemed even worse after the serum, as if it was possible to be deader, more unresponsive, and Peggy was real, breathing, talking, living real in a world pilled up with dead bodies and shattered dreams. Peggy, was, somehow, both the unusual and the familiar, both the newness and the established, both the adventure and the welcome home, and Steve, Steve wanted that. Steve needed that in a way he wasn’t even aware himself.

            He hated himself. And then he hated the handwriting sprayed across his ribs that read Y/F/N in a cursive handwriting too familiar and too distinct; he hated that it didn’t read Peggy Carter, he hated that he wanted it to, and he hated himself more for betraying all his mother and father taught him about loyalty and fairness to one’s soulmate. Steve felt stretched thin between the reality of his predicament and the impossible dreams he harbored for so long, and he cried, and he pushed Peggy away and then asked her to stay, _please stay, because I’m so scared_. Steve was scared his life would simply be an endless amount of disappointment and hurt, one after the other, and he clang himself to the first real thing that ever crossed his path besides Bucky.

            And then there was the ice.

            In a way, as he watched the freezing water take the cockpit in a dazed trance, he was happy that everything was going to end there. He couldn’t fight the cold; he didn’t want to. He embraced the cold as an old lover, offering him the nothingness of an eternity of darkness and silence. Steve was too egotistical to let Peggy go, and she deserved happiness with whoever Sousa was; he was no one to take her away from her soulmate. And that pain, that phantom, desperate, all-consuming pain was too much to face every single day to the rest of his miserable life. He wanted the nothing, because at least the nothing didn’t hurt nor didn’t disappoint him.

            And it felt as if a whole eternity had passed but even then, barely a second when he opened his eyes, the billowing breeze coming through the nearest window jumping him awake. The first thing he noticed was his predicament. The second thing was that he was feeling it.

            Feeling something _so new_ , so distant and yet so anticipated, so _wished for_ , so longed and desired, that whoever this person was, wherever they were, whatever it was their reality, not a part of it barely mattered. He ran and even after Fury tried to somewhat calm him down, Steve searched for anything at all that could further jump the letters, alive and vibrating, in his chest.

            But he was convinced his life was a miserable one, and his life happened. Loki happened, Ultron happened, Bucky happened. Suddenly, the mark, which he so anxiously longed for, didn’t matter as much, not because it lost any value but because his entire life didn’t revolve around it anymore; the soft hum lulled him to sleep and waked him up every day, and it seemed enough to know that, whoever they were, they were safe, far away from the absurd succession of events that dominated his routine ever since he got another shot at life.

            And if the compulsive tick in Bucky’s flesh hand was anything to go by, Steve knew that it had to do with his soulmate too. His hands would fly up to his shoulder, again, stroking in an affectioned manner the letters Steve knew were kept underneath the clothing, and Bucky’s face always seemed lighter, more at peace whenever he touched it. Steve, of course, couldn’t break the news to Bucky about his own mark: the soldier had vanished after Siberia, saying it was safer for them to split up, and the rushed meet up at the Johannesburg airport hadn’t been private enough for Steve to talk about it.

 

            The flight attendant’s voice, soothing and slightly mechanic, resonated through the plane’s speakers, breaking Steve free from his haunting memories and skewed plans. They were landing, and in the peripheral of his vision Sam was already jumping out of his seat, backpack in place, a grin in his mouth that were indisputable a happy one; Steve watched him, happy for Sam but also so envious of whatever happiness was expecting him outside of the pressurized door.

            Wanda was the last one to rise, and by the time she reached the corridor Steve was already guiding Bucky, carefully, out of the plane. They were the only ones there, and the blond threaded around the Winter Soldier as a goldsmith would maneuver a delicate gem. He could already listen the commotion outside, the sound of flashes and exalted voices, and James just huffed in annoyance, murmuring for Steve to just let him be, that his advanced age made him soft and scared.

            Outside, a swarm of journalists awaited the celebrated return of Captain America and his team to the United States; a red carpet was extended all the away from the first step till the last, where five men were standing still, their backs facing the plane.

            Steve was the first to step outside the plane, followed by Bucky, Sam, Clint and then Wanda. The crowed boomed; American flags were hung up high in the air or being held by onlookers and the gentle breeze of late august seemed only to increase the cinematic effect of the whole mise-en-scene. Steve noticed, when he reached the bottom of the stairs, that everything seemed slightly off, as if staged, and before he could further analyze his impressions further, a man caught up to him, extending his hand

            - Captain, it’s a pleasure to have you with us once again. – He said, a calculating smile splattered across his wrinkled face. Steve just nodded. – I’m Mike Pence, VP. May I introduce our new president, Mr. Donald Trump? – he said, offering his hand to someone else.

            - Rogers! – The man said, full of fake familiarity, grabbing Steve in a hug hard to escape. The man was as tall as himself, and he smelled strongly of expensive cologne. – This is the man! – he said, after releasing Steve and posing with him for pictures. The multitude of flashes momentarily blinded the blond, but by now Steve was used to being the center of attention.

            - Mister President, is good to be home. – he answered, a slight upturn in his lips the only indication that his words were true. He was tired, he was hungry and he was suspicious; too suspicious to cater to vain publicity work.

            - It’s good to have you back. – Trump answered, his little eyes twinkling. – We will have a field day sometime this week, what do you think? You back at DC, doing the work that matters. – the president continued, still holding Steve’s hand. Hellicarriers falling from the sky was the first image invoked by the captain’s mind, and he wasn’t so sure DC would be that eager to have him back.

            He couldn’t deny it thought. It was Trump’s work that the Sokovia accords had been revoked in US soil and because of Mike Pence’s lobby in the UN that he was allowed to go back, uncharged. Still, something settled uncomfortably in the back of his throat, almost as a scream tearing its way up.  He only smiled politely, allowing the journalists to take their share before separating himself from Trump, no more words exchanged.  

            He vaguely remembered the voting, two years ago, that denied President Ellis his reelection. Truth be told, Steve didn’t know anything about the new president, too caught up in his reality post-accords to pay attention to anything else besides his and Buck’s survival. Another round of introductions was made: Steve Bannon, the Secretary of State and the Defense Secretary, all of whom comprised of old, white males, faking smiles and taking pictures; Steve waved and posed as a dutiful propaganda boy, more out of a sense of shame than anything else, because there, in the outskirts of the crowd, were Tony and his driver, Happy.

 

            Tony seemed well. The years definitely did him good; there was something lighter, happier in his stance, even though Steve couldn’t see his eyes by the shades hiding them. By Tony’s side stood a woman, in her late twenties, with an impressive mane of blond hair.

            - Rogers. – Tony said, his voice somewhat strained. – Now that you had your show, let’s get going. If its okay with the celebrity? I’m not trying to ruin an autograph afternoon or anything. – he said, already giving his back to Steve and entering the limo. Happy followed; the blond woman tried a pitiful smile, following Tony inside.

            The changing in Tony’s demeanor was astounding; by the time Clint entered the limo, snickering because _damm Stark, did you miss us?_ Tony had already retreated back to his original dry, regarded self Steve met so many years ago, when Loki decided to play god. His back was so taunt it could break from the barest of pressures.

            The blond woman was sensible enough to intervene before the worst could happen.

            - I believe we haven’t been introduced. – she said, all kind smiles. – I’m Amanda. I’m Tony’s soulmate. – she said, with a smile aiming coyness and delivering arrogance. Wanda snorted. Amanda pretended not to hear it. – The President thought the limo was of good taste. – she concluded, her bright nails resting lightly in Tony’s thigh.

            - The President think it is of good taste to build a wall between us and Mexico. The true mystery is why I still pretend to listen the idiot. – Tony said, his tongue clicking. Sam’s eyes went as round as saucers.

            Between the limo, the wall in Mexico and the endearment Tony attributed to the president, Steve’s mind barely registered the first two.

            - Seriously Tony? Idiot? Don’t be crude. – He said, all disapproving, restrained smiles. The smiles completely flew above Tony’s head.

            - Crude? What should I call him? A radioactive orange? – Tony quipped.

            Clint laughed, Sam stayed silent. Amanda seemed on the brink of laughter. The strained atmosphere between Steve and Tony weren’t ignored by any of the participants on the ride home, but between all of them, Steve was the only one pretending to ignore it. Tony, as it seemed, was basking in all the nervousness; between the both of them, the brunette was the one refusing to play the ignore-it game.

            - He’s the president, Tony. – Steve said. In truth, it was stronger than him; Steve’s self-righteousness was probably his strongest personality trait.

            - He’s a cunt. – Tony quipped back, and this time Amanda was the one to intervene.

            - Tony, love, what did we talk about complimenting the president? – she asked, eyes shinning with malice. – It’s not fair to attribute to him such a wonderful element of the feminine anatomy.

            Clint was still laughing. Sam was eyeing him suspiciously.

            - I like her. – Clint said, matter of fact. The smile was still shining in his eyes and there wasn’t no malice in his voice. – I like her better than I liked Pepper, and that’s something. – he concluded, well humored.

            Suddenly, silence was made. A pin could have been heard falling into the front-passenger seat. Two sets of eyes, one brown and one blue, seemed determined to flash Clint’s out of the limo, straight through the pavement.

            Sam decided to intervene before it became too late.

            - I would like to thank you, Stark. – he said, sincerity and nervousness taking the best of him. – For fighting so hard to get us back. I mean, you didn’t have to-

            - Yes, I didn’t. – Tony cut Sam, still eyeing Clint. – And trust me, I truly didn’t mean it. I truly didn’t want it to. So, enjoy the early Santa, I guess? – he replied. With the sunglasses on, it was hard to tell to whom exactly Tony was looking. It seemed as if his eyes were everywhere.

            - And like, it’s not as if Tony did it for free. – Amanda jumped in, her words mingling uncomfortably with Tony’s incisiveness about his motives. – The Senate gave him a mean tax break for all the lobbying and such. So yeah, billions for some renegades, or whatever? Sounds good to me. – she concluded, her pouty lips closed in a coy smile. Wanda decided she hated the omega already.

            - Does this mean the government is still breathing down our necks? – Clint asked, his brows furrowed. If he noticed the earlier discomfort about his words, he didn’t show.

            - I don’t know. Why don’t you ask mister propaganda boy over there? – Tony shrugged, looking over the window. Amanda turned to Steve, eyes searching.

            By this Steve already had his fair share of bullshit. Exasperated, he mingled his fingers through his long hair, sighing.  

            - So much for a welcome home, hum Tony? – Steve asked, his words biting. – I guess the playboy billionaire is back! – he continued, brows furrowed, blue eyes fixed on Iron Man.

            - Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Should I had brought ice and some vhs, Steve?

            Two sets of eyes fixated on Tony, fuming. Bucky, who was silent till this point, looked the inventor with a death-glare strong enough to melt steal. Steve’s jaw twitched so hard Amanda was certain he would break two or three teeth. Sam, Amanda, Clint and Wanda eyed each other, uneasiness setting in while the 3 heroes battered their eyelashes in a battle for dominance.

            Surprisingly, Bucky was the first to cave in. He ducked his head, turning to the window, mouth shut, eyes closed. Steve, at a loss between rage and mourning, lost the momentum to say anything. Tony turned himself to another window, eyeing without really seeing the trees passing by upstate New York.

            Amanda felt the change of demeanor yet again in her alpha, and just like Sam, stayed there, feeling sorry and useless, while a heavy fog of resentment settled among the passengers. If the black hero noticed anything in the small exchange between Steve and Tony, he didn’t show.

            The rest of the ride home was done in absolute silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one is up! This time, I would like to make some clarifications:
> 
> \- This piece is not, by any means, biased between Team Cap and Team Iron Man. Even though I'm myself Team Iron Man, I see the flaws in this part of the argument and consciously choose to portray both positions in this piece. There is (i sure hope it does) a good balance of characters between the two of them. Since this happens in a shorter spam after Civil War than the canon and we are taking a political discussion into this universe, I think is of good taste to reintroduce the Sokovia Accords as a "were we left off" type of situation so the whole trump + avengers don't look so forced together. 
> 
> \- I'm not from the united states so whatever contents about us politics and policy being approached here were mainly influenced by international midia judged impartial such as The Intercept, Reuters, Al Jazeera, DWS, El País, The Guardian, etc.
> 
> \- At this chapter things start getting a little more complicated. Introductions were already made, the a/b/o as well as the soulmark/soulmate dynamics will be better explored when we see the individual relationships between the characters develop.
> 
> \- There isn't a single character in this piece who is completely good. And this includes, too, the reader. Its impossible to be always flowers and sunshine, especially when keeping so much resentment, like the characters here shown, locked inside. So, be nice to the original characters, as well as the marvel ones because, quite honestly, they are all human first.
> 
> \- I don't care much for Wanda so apart specific patches, she won't be joining this piece. I prefer to ignore her than to make a disservice to the fans by portraying her wrong. 
> 
> And that's it! See you guys in the next chapter, which should be up in a couple of days. Stay tuned!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky have problems. Tony finally meets you.
> 
> Literary references made in this chapter: Fiztgeraldian villain: In The Great Gatsby, book written by Scott Fitzgerald, the main antagonist is called Tom Buchanan. Steve and Bucky probably read this book at their teenage years since it was released in 1925 and became a big hit for the next decade. Hade's door: refers to the hell door, written by Dante, an italian poet from the 15th century that described the hell door as eternal and all consuming. Dante's work, called Divine Comedy, influenced european art heavily till the 20th century. Steve may also know this since he was an artist himself.

_‘The stock market registered new heights this morning after 3 consecutive days of soaring dollar valorization. The gun lobby’s been pushing this increase after Captain America and his fellow companions return to the United States. Remington Arms and Colt’s Manufactured registered the biggest steep between all the firearm brands in what promises to be the new-_

            You turned from the television, fuming. The café was absolutely packed, but even then, the anchor’s voice, vigorous and monotone, was able to pull yourself out of your friends meeting. _He was everywhere_. Trying to escape his memory on those days was almost as trying to avoid chaos in McCarthyism: futile. Since Saturday morning, when the official United States jet landed in the JFK, it was impossible to stray away from his face. Twitter was trending as much as the stock market, and the invasive propaganda of his military accomplishments were in an all time high.

            Republicans used his return as the Pope would seek the Valois support after the Crusades; full of misguided righteousness and malice. Democrats would use his return as that of Jesus Christ; a martyr in his own right, fighting abroad against prejudice and misplaced anger. The picture that showed Trump and Steve had become one more missile in government propaganda, and by noon of the day before every single billboard in DC pictured the both of them.

            Trish Talk, which enjoyed the free publicity of Steve’s arrival, made a special program with new yorkers, specially Brooklyn residents, on how wrong or right were Steve’s actions in Europe. By noon of the day before, the program had reached a mark of 40 million views on SoundCloud.

            Amanda, as it was, seemed to agree with exactly half of the United States population on the matter. Her distaste for the man also reached new heights.

            - And then he said _hun, so much for a welcome home tony!_ – she continued, and the sudden throatiness of her voice trying to emulate Steve’s baritone took you out of your deprecating thoughts. – Can you believe that? He’s such a jerk! Tony should have left him rot in whichever third world country he was hiding in. – she continued with such a ferocity that made her latte threaten to spill on the tabletop.

            - There there. We know you love your alpha, Amanda. – Katie said, well humored as ever, little pats being offered on the blonde’s shoulder.

            You didn’t say anything. Your mind was far absent, trying to reach new distances away from him, even if your body couldn’t. His presence, now, was nothing short of an inconvenience, and yet it seemed the only thing you couldn’t stop thinking about.

            And neither could Katie, if your intuition served you well. She had bags under her eyes that weren’t there since Saturday morning, and the autumn in New York only seemed to further the general aspect of preoccupation clouding her face.

            Amanda didn’t notice anything amiss.

            - Oh, and how could I forget?! – she continued yet again, and you and Katie simply exchanged sympathetic smiles towards each other, knowing very well that a new discourse was on the verge of spilling out Amanda’s pouty lips. – there’s also his friend. _Fucking Winter Soldier_. The guy bombed Vienna, destroyed half of Berlin and an airport just outside Leipzig and he still brings him here?! Haven’t America had enough problems as it is with the terrorists and Loki? – she continued, unconcerned about the fact that her friends seemed deaf to her complaints.

            - There there, sweetie. What’s the friend’s name? – Katie asked, a good friend as always, because she noticed you were too exasperated to contribute to anything else.

            - James Buchanan Barnes. BU-CHA-NAN. Can you believe it? The guy’s named after some Fitzgeraldian villain –

            Amanda and you, deaf as you both were about anything else besides your own hollow problems, didn’t seemed to notice Katie becoming several shades paler than usual. Her big, hazel eyes looked twice their size, her thin lips sallow and loose. She looked about to die or run away, as if her fight or flight response had been triggered instantly.

            The sound, sharp and obtruding, of spilled liquids resonated throughout the café, claiming everyone’s attention towards the brunette that seemed desperate enough under the scrutiny as to attempt to retrieve the liquids with her bare hands.

            - or some shit. They call him Bucky because, as it is, of course a guy with 200 pounds of pure muscle and a metal arm deserves a kid’s nickname. – Amanda continued, as if nothing was amiss, and only after her interjection was made that she noticed the green tea Katie was nursing, spilled all over the floor, her owner calculating its contents. – Katie. Are you feeling well? – she asked, out of her daze, turning her thick body towards her friend.

            - Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? – Katie answered, but her response didn’t seem convincing even to her own ears. - I just remembered I have this really important meeting. And I’m actually late! Sorry, I gotta run. See you guys later? – she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she dazed out of the café, almost colliding with a new patron on her way out.

            - What the eternal flying fuck was that? – You asked as your eyes seemed to follow the outline of you friend towards the multitude of pedestrians in New York.

            Amanda, as it was, completely lost whatever indignation was still lingering on her. Her blue eyes, calculating as ever, seemed to see Katie there, pathetic and afraid, as if the scene that just transpire was still present to her mind’s eye.

            - Is it me or Katie seemed like, really afraid? – Amanda asked, turning to you. You just shrugged.

            - I don’t know. Do you think it was the Buchanan part? She lost an aunt at nine eleven. – you said. Amanda conceded, a brown raised.

            - Could be. – she answered only, turning yet again to face the door in which Katie had just stormed out.

            Amanda was oblivious to everything. Her life, from the moment of her conception till that very day, was a perfect example of privilege and carelessness. The only thing that seemed to break the bubble of safety she had lived in so far was her weight and even then, the general pinkness of her complexion and the amount of money she had in her bank account seemed to make her forgivable in the eyes of patriarchy. Amanda couldn’t possibly understand what Katie was going through, even if she tried.

            But not you. You knew those haunted eyes yourself; they were always there, waiting for you in the mirror.

 

            The housing section of the Avengers Compound was nothing but a shadow of itself.

            The years it spent in eternal loneliness seemed to have taken its toll on the building; no cracks nor leakage had appeared anywhere in the multitude of concrete and glass, but the dampness of solitude and the bleakness of silence permeated every surface. Tony had changed the linens and the upholstery of everything, and yet it wasn’t enough to rid the space of the fragmentation that seemed to cling at every corner.

            It seemed as if it was apart from the normal passage of time, a place within and without whose single usage was also its biggest profanity.

            - You know, I’m just waiting the day a beam will fall onto your head. – Bucky said, his deep voice cutting through the dreary atmosphere. – And honestly? You probably will deserve it. – He concluded, his voice breaking through Steve’s dry punches in a whiff of a smile.

            The ferocity in which Steve dedicated his time on the punching bag scared the brunette sometimes. The silence which seemed determined to remain at every surface appeared to somewhat reduce the noise he usually made, but not today; whatever it was in Steve’s mind was enough to awake the ghosts slumbering at the Compound.

            Steve’s just breathed out. At his side were six equally tore punching bags, the sand within escaping through gaping roles at the side. – And you wouldn’t even wipe a tear for your old fellow, hun jerk? – Steve replied, his back still turned to Bucky.

            Whatever it was that happened in Siberia had affected not only Tony but Bucky too. Steve thought he was savaging a friend in favor of another but in truth he was actually distancing himself from both of them.

            - What’s going on? – James asked, all pretense of funny familiarity long gone. His blue, steely eyes searched Steve’s as ones would a broken machine; apathetic and disinterested.

            The indifference of Bucky’s question deeply stung into Steve’s chest. His voice – monotone and bored – seemed to snap the blonde out of his daze in a much more efficient manner than the words itself.

            - Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me yourself? – He asked, turning to his friend. There was more bite than bark in his tone, and Steve immediately regretted the words as soon as they came out.

            James took Steve’s questioning the wrong way.  His eyes were suddenly wide, as if he had just been slapped on the face moments ago.

            - Excuse me? – Bucky asked, clear confusion in his voice. His eyes gleamed with hurt.

            Steve breathed in deeply, trying to avoid lashing out again. He failed miserably.

            - Excuse me? EXCUSE ME? So you just vanishes after Siberia, left me there in the Philippines without as much as a goodbye, saw me back at Johannesburg without as much as a hello, stayed silent the whole trip, arrived here and ask ME what MY problem IS?! – Steve answered, frustration coloring his voice. His thick fingers carded through his hair, still long and unkept.

            Bucky scoffed so hard his whole body seemed to shudder, exalting contempt and condescension.  He eyed his friend with such cruelty that Steve stepped back, his brows furrowed.

            - If you insist on going on this again. – He said, all purposeful disdain. – First, as I said, we had to split up. Since, you know, we were running away from one of the most imperialistic countries on the world, which also had the support of the biggest tech genius of the entire world which, as you may well remember, have programmed himself a fully automatic AI capable of building murder robots at will. – Bucky started, venom in his voice. – But of course, you will remember this, since you told me it yourself. – he continued, over emphasizing his words. Steve’s nostrils flared, his chest puffed. - As regarding the ride home? Of course, I’m sorry. I should have been more considerate of your feelings and not thinking obsessively on how we were coming back to a country which has the guy we just tried to murder in Siberia because, well, fucking guess! I killed his parents! – he finished, hands high up in the air. Bucky, usually well-mannered and apathetic, seemed someone else with his eyes shining blue out of unaltered scorn of himself.

            - I can’t believe you are going on this fuckery again. – Steve answered, shoulders squared, ready to fight. – I told you it was not your fault-

            - Don’t. – James interjected, his stance mirroring Steve. – Don’t insult me like this Steven. – Bucky finished, his mouth downturned, his hands bailed into fists. 

            - Is everything all right? – Wanda asked from the doorway, in her hands a plate with some sandwiches.

            Her thick, slavic accent cut through them as a hunting knife would its prey. The room was heavy with the overwhelming scent of alphas fighting; Wanda’s betaness cut through the angry hazy as if it was nothing but a blur; her slender figure gliding through the room as a witch would in a moor.

            - I brought some sandwiches. – She said, simply, leaving the plate on an empty bench. – We were all eating together back at the kitchen, but I thought you guys would like some time alone. – She said, shrugging.

            There seemed to be some deliberation in the way she stayed, her eyes scanning both the alphas in a calculating manner. It was almost as if she was debating herself the perks of interjecting a fight that wasn’t her own.

            - Bon appetite. – She said, finally, giving her back to both of them and walking out. Whatever it was that she saw there, Wanda decided it was not worth the headache.

            When Bucky turned to his friend again, Steve seemed feebler than he had ever been: shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, his mouth a frown. The blond hair, which usually looked like a golden halo, was dirty and neglected; his eyes seemed to be slipping, as if Steve was Atlas and tired of catering to the world on his back.

            James, of course, knew what all that was about. But he didn’t know how to approach the subject; not even back in 1942, when they were together freeing Europe and all was well. Steve had always been quiet, guarding things only for himself, in a way that seemed to make the blonde’s chest a safe full of secrets. Bucky, of course, realized at their time in France; Steve always seemed to slightly limp on the right side and also protect it more than his left; almost as if he was hurting and avoiding being hurt. And while neither of them never told the other their mark placements, even when they discussed about the pricking and the pain, Bucky had reasonably concluded that Steve’s mark was placed on his right side, between his breast and his hips.

            James’s suspicion was found true on their ride home when Steve, oblivious to it, remained holding his side the whole time, his fingers pressing between his second and third rib. The hurt expression was there, this time mingled with some preoccupation too; the blonde’s cyan, blue eyes remained, even now, glazed with some unshed tears. James also knew that Steve would never talk about it; he was like Hade’s door, eternal, primordial, swallowing whole truths and claiming the hopes of those who dared to enter.

            - I’m feeling my mark. – He said, breathing deeply. The feeling of exposition extended only seconds, dissipating from his mark to the outside of his body. – I’m feeling it Steve. _Its alive_. – He continued. Now that he had approached the subject, it felt as if a dam had broken on his throat, the words spilling themselves, careless and free. – I can’t remember if I had felt it with Hydra, but I’m feeling it know, as clear as day. Whoever this omega is, its alive Steve. Its finally alive. – he continued, his eyes supplicant for something not even James knew. He grasped his friend biceps, as if his touch could somehow make his words seem truer.

            Steve breathed in deeply, his right hand nestling itself in Bucky’s jaw at its own accord; it was unclear if Steve needed a support for his pain or an anchor for his desperation. Tears spilled from his eyes, unafraid, his nostrils flaring feebly.

            - She’s pushing me away Buck. – He said, his voice a mingle of a sorrowful whisper and a cry of despair. – She’s not- she’s not answering, she’s not, she’s not touching it Bucky, she’s _repealing_ – he said, his lips unable to stop the torrent of words that seemed to just keep coming. – I don’t know why, I don’t- - he tried to continued, but Steve, as Hades, was prideful enough to stop his own feelings from indignation.

            Bucky did the only thing he possibly could; he held on to his friend, letting Steve’s deaf tears intermingle themselves to the black fabric of his t-shirt.

            Now all of it made sense, as Steve’s restlessness and lack of patience were only symptoms of a much bigger situation the brunette couldn’t possibly have predicted. And yet, it seemed so oblivious, the way Steve’s body seemed to be heavier on the right side, as if he was short out of collapsing.

            Steve, of course, felt guilt more than mourning and desperation. Perhaps if he had searched for his omega sooner, perhaps if he had cared sooner, all would have been perfectly avoidable. In a string of regret and misery too great to be completely felt, Steve perceived himself dozing out of conscient thought, the hopelessness of his purposefully unresponsive mark the only thing in his mind.

 

            - I don’t know if this is a good idea. – You said, clutching your purse viciously. Steve had been crying that morning; the words splayed across your collarbone seemed to be ablaze, pricking your skin with hell fire. Amanda ignored you.

            Since that day when fire rained from the sky in DC, you realized that Steve was not coming – not for you, not even for the words that were his on your body – and you considered, sometimes obsessively, pushing the mark away. Becoming markless. Taking from him that privilege he didn’t make anything to deserve and neither did anything to keep.

            But you weren’t dumb. Purposefully pushing a soulmate away was a dangerous medical procedure you couldn’t possibly dare to do it on your own nor had the courage to do it in company; yet, there were means, more unobtrusive means of keeping an undesired mark at bay. Drugs one could use, breathing techniques one could benefit from, mind pathways one could take to make an ever-imposing presence a simple annoyance in the back of one’s mind.

            After everything, it was his return that pushed you off the edge. When he was god knew where, the feeling was nothing but a whisp; a tiny little thing too unimportant to notice. But now, with him here, in the same state you were, it felt as if you could taste his emotions in the back of your tongue. His heartbeat was your heartbeat, his thoughts were your thoughts, his emotions were yours too. Across the world a soulmate was easy enough to ignore; in less than miles of distance, a soulmate was as discreet as screams in the night.

            So you started to numb him away. And Steve, apparently, had catch up on your plan.

            It was only obvious. You weren’t planning on surrender yourself to him anytime soon nor were you willing to do it in the future. Steve didn’t seem too eager to find you neither. As soon as the mark started peeling off, the better it would be for all parties involved. Steve could then turn to blond, republican beauties and you could then move forward with your life. His pictures with Trump still burned your soul, closing off your throat, making your eyes water.

            (‘Master, what is it that I hear?’ Dante asked. ‘by pain, what is of this people now defeated?’ and him to me ‘It’s the woeful price of those souls mournful in their cry, that were with ignominy and neglect’… ‘they bring so low sorrowful eyes that jealousy bloom in them, jealousy of all luck.’ Somehow, you remembered this passage from Dante’s Inferno. The letters, which refer to those unfortunate souls, condemned to an eternity in hell, resonated within you in a much more intimate manner now. Once upon a time, before the iron cross and the desperation, you thought you and Steve would share the passion for the arts and the classics in Rome, drunkenly drinking your love for one another. Now, all that was left of that was your own sorrowful eyes, jealousy blooming in you from others.)

            - Here he comes. – Amanda said, her white, perfect teeth instantly making themselves present. The change in her demeanor was as clear as bay water, and the hell fire in your chest only burned higher, brighter.

            - I’m sorry, I’m late. – Tony said, all charming wit and grace. He seemed to be in his natural element here, outside of the Avengers Compound, wearing a 3 button up probably more expensive than your car. Amanda beamed beside you, the streetlights making her eyes shine. – Hello bunny. – He said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. How in the nine hells had Amanda convinced him to call her that, you couldn’t possibly know. And yet, she was your friend, and you knew that Amanda had strange ways to get what she wanted.

            - I believe we have been introduced. – Tony said, turning to you. The shades skidded from his nose, his brown eyes boring into you. – At that terrible date where you three were playing Bugs bunny hiding in the bushes. – he said, shrugging. The shadow of a smirk seemed to cross his face at the memory. – Tony Stark, playboy, billionaire, you know the drill. – He said nonchalant, offering you his hand.

             - Y/F/N. I work for you. – you said. His palm was firm and warm, with callous as thick as possible.

             - I know. How you were able to push through Selvig this past two months without an attempted murder is what really baffles me. – He said, recoiling his hand. – Either it was mister Reindeer Games or Ass-place, we will never know. – He answered easily. There was a calculated malice in his voice that didn’t passed through you; nor did you care.

             - Well, Y/N/N did push through college with me, and that is to say something. – Amanda jumped in. – If she could get past that, I’m sure she would have defeated Loki in 15 minutes. – she continued, the happiness in her smile impossible to ignore.

            - Why do I feel like I’ve given you the wrong job? – Tony asked you, smirking.

             - Because you did? – you replied, easily, effortlessly. – The secret is in the wrist. You said, moving your own up and down as if to illustrate your point.

             - I don’t think a wrist could have made much difference in Leipzig. – Tony said.

            For a moment his deprecating humor got the best of him, and you could see the concerned look Amanda shot in his direction. Tony, to his credit, hid much better the slip he had just said.

             - Of course it would. – You chided back, taking reign of the conversation. – How would Captain America have thrown his shield at you with two broken wrists? – you asked, smirking.

            The full body laugh Tony gave you was the only confirmation you needed that he approved of your company. Even Amanda laughed, intertwining her fingers with his own. When his laughter stopped, Tony turned to you again, eyes sparkling.

             - Fancy some dinner? I don’t think Amanda would be too cross with me for inviting you in. We are almost family, after all and I hear incest is in these days. – He said, turning to her, an eyebrow raised.

             - Of course not. – She said, squeezing his arm. – Or else how am I supposed to get pass forty-five minutes of you talking? – she answered, her sweet, sickening saccharine voice making Tony scoff indignantly.

            You simply smiled, feeling, for the first time in days, happy and weightless.

            - I would love to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, another one is up. Sorry any mistakes, I'm the beta of my own work. This one is longer to compensate for the delay. Next one is Thor and Loki!
> 
> Another thing: I'm already planning my next work. Would you guys like Loki or Steve for the pairing? Let me know in the comments. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline in this piece is a little different from canon. Instead of having a 4 year gap between Civil War and Infinity War, there is only a 2 year gap. President Ellis is being used solely not to make the canon-timeline worst: even though I recognize having him lost a presidential reelection 2 years ago when he was already the president since the end of Iron Man 2 is completely wrong by the us presidential regime, it was the best I could do with the time and characters offered by Marvel.


End file.
